The Sniper and the Wolf (19 page)

48

THE MOSCOW KREMLIN

Gil was now dressed in a suit and tie with a black leather overcoat that fit him perfectly. He had spent the past couple hours on a private tour of the Kremlin with Colonel Savcenko, and they now stood outside admiring the giant bronze Tsar Cannon on display near the Dormition Cathedral. Cast in 1586 as a defensive weapon for the Kremlin, “Russia’s Shotgun” was an 890 mm bombard that weighed thirty-nine tons—nine tons more than a Sherman tank.

“Hell of gun,” Gil said. “Has it ever been fired?”

“Not in battle. Though there is evidence inside the bore that it has been fired at least once.”

A contingent of five men rounded the corner of the cathedral and began walking in their direction. Gil recognized President Putin immediately.

“The president does speak English,” Savcenko said, “so you can speak directly to him, but he will probably choose to speak to you through me.”

“I understand.” Gil girded himself for what he expected to be a weighty interview.

President Putin approached appearing quite serious, though not entirely unfriendly. His pale blue eyes were almost lifeless, but his face conveyed a certain calm, and Gil sensed no immediate danger.

“Master Chief Shannon,” Putin said in his gentle voice, offering his hand with a kind, though not overly cheerful, smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. President.” Gil matched his grip, which was firm and confident but in no way aggressive or challenging. “Colonel Savcenko has been giving me a tour. This is a fascinating place, sir.”

Putin nodded, holding Gil’s gaze. “The Kremlin has a rich history.”

“I’ve begun to see that for myself, sir.”

“Are you hungry?”

Gil could sense Savcenko’s mild discomfiture at being left out of the loop, and he realized that Putin must be breaking with the norm by speaking in English. He took that as a favorable wind. “Yes, I am, sir.”

“This way,” Putin said with a wave of his hand. He said something to Savcenko in Russian, and the colonel began interpreting for Gil as they walked along. “You and Major Dragunov have been on an adventure.”

“We have, sir. Major Dragunov is a brave man, a fine soldier. I’m proud to have worked with him. Unfortunately, Sasha Kovalenko is a brave man as well, and he got away.”

“What will your superiors say when you return?” Putin asked pointedly. “About deviating from the mission?”

Gil decided to gamble on the favorable wind. “I’ll probably get my ass chewed, Mr. President.”

Upon hearing the translation, Putin paused midstride to look at Gil, almost cracking a smile, though not quite.

Gil kept a military bearing. “I’m not exactly sure how that translates into Russian, sir.”

Putin chuckled, in spite of himself, and Gil saw they were going to get along.

A short time later, they were served in an ornate dining room in the Kremlin Palace, just the two of them, with the translator off to the side and Putin’s security men standing at parade rest at four points around the room.

“I have never eaten in here,” Putin remarked, placing a linen napkin into his lap.

Gil did the same with his own napkin, noting a portrait of Joseph Stalin on the far wall and feeling the infamous dictator’s eyes boring into him.

“It seems to be a day of firsts, sir.”

“It does,” Putin said. “Vodka?”

Gil hated vodka. “Please. Thank you, sir.”

Putin signaled for the male waitron to pour Gil a drink and dipped his spoon into a bowl of borscht.

Gil did the same.

Putin looked up from his bowl and spoke directly to Gil in English: “Have you ever eaten borscht?” The soup was made from beets, potatoes, and cabbage.

“No, sir,” Gil said, wiping his chin with the napkin. “But it’s very good.”

They continued with small talk throughout the first course and most of the second, which consisted of meat and potatoes. Not until the third course—tea and cake—did Putin come around to the events of the past forty-eight hours.

Savcenko turned to Gil with a stern look and translated, “You are aware of the awkward position this rescue has put me in?”

Gil set down his cup of tea. “I am, sir.”

“Why do you think your superiors allowed you to leave Turkey with those women?” Putin’s eyes were once again cold and lifeless.

“May I speak freely, Mr. President?”

“Of course.”

“I think they let us take off because they knew I’d burn down half
of Istanbul if that’s what it took to get those girls out.” Gil sipped his tea. “Now, that’s an exaggeration, of course, but Colonel Savcenko tells me the GRU has been following my career for the last year and a half. And if that’s true, sir, then they must have told you by now that I can be very determined when I want to be.”

Putin smiled. “It has been mentioned.”

“Well, with that being said, Mr. President, I’m guessing my superiors decided it was probably easier to let me have my way than to risk me making things worse.”

Putin sat back, attempting to read Gil’s demeanor. “You don’t think they allowed it in order to put me into an awkward position?”

Gil shrugged. “It’s possible, sir. Your government and mine have been at odds over Ukraine for some time now. But that’s politics, Mr. President. I don’t know much about it, and I’m very careful not to involve myself in it. I’m a Navy SEAL, sir. I go where I’m told and do what I’m told.” But even Gil was hard-pressed not to laugh. “Well, sir, that last part’s not entirely true, but I think you understand my point.”

Putin sat nodding, unable to entirely suppress his own smile, speaking directly in English once more. “Here in Russia, things would be very different for you.”

“I am entirely aware of that, Mr. President, and if my actions have put you in an awkward position, I hope you will accept my sincere apologies. I cannot, however, apologize for bringing those girls home. It was the right thing to do, sir, and I do not regret having done it.”

Putin raised his hand to the translator to silence him. He looked at Gil for a long a moment. “You are a man of principles.”

“I’m not sure if that’s it or not, sir. My father was a Green Beret during the Vietnam War. Toward the end of the war, he was sent on a mission north of the DMZ. He was forced to kill innocent women and children on that mission, and he never forgave himself for it. After the war, I watched him drink himself to death. I’m not a psychologist, sir, and I don’t spend too much time thinking about it,
but I suppose it’s possible that I feel some inner need to make up for the people he killed.”

Putin added a shot of vodka to his tea and sat back in the chair. “Tell me about the pregnant woman you brought back from Iran.”

Gil stared at the table for a moment and then looked Putin in the eye. “Mr. President, I’ve come to respect you very much during our short time together, but you know that I can’t talk about Iran.”

“I suppose not,” Putin said with a sly smile. He fell silent, but after a pause, he spoke again in Russian. Savcenko translated for Gil. “You also rescued Warrant Officer Sandra Brux against orders, correct?”

Gil realized that Putin had been thoroughly briefed, and he understood there was no point to denying his actions in the Panjshir Valley. “I did, sir. Yes.”

Putin drank from his tea as Savcenko turned to Gil. “I’m curious how many more times you will need to disobey orders to pay for the sins of your father.”

Gil thought about that. “It’s a good question, sir. I don’t know the answer myself.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that Major Dragunov has accepted responsibility for bringing the girls home?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve fought together, sir. He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his. Combat forms a bond, Mr. President, and warriors like us—well, sir, we tend to take all that gung-ho shit seriously.”

Putin laughed, his eyes suddenly much less lifeless than they had been, but the moment of levity was short lived. “I wanted to talk with you to learn the mind of an American Special Forces operative. This is a rare opportunity for me.”

Gil smiled. “I understand, sir. May I ask a question of my own, sir?”

“You may, yes.”

“Will Major Dragunov be punished, sir?”

Putin didn’t answer for a long time. Finally, he said, “Sasha Kova
lenko has been spotted in Belarus. By now, he’s making his way back to South Ossetia. Would you be interested in another opportunity to face him?”

Gil felt his blood begin to pump. “Very much so, Mr. President.”

“Major Dragunov will be pleased.” Putin took another drink of tea. “He would very much like the opportunity to redeem himself. But I will need for you to give me your word that you will not deviate from the mission this time.”

Gil held Putin’s gaze for a long moment, hoping that Pope would never get such a bright idea. “You have my word, Mr. President.”

“Very well,” Putin said. “Major Dragunov is preparing your weapons and equipment. Your plane leaves in an hour.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I was told that I’d be meeting with someone from my embassy this evening.”

“Well, you can if you like,” Putin replied, “but that will mean missing your chance to accompany Major Dragunov.”

Gil chuckled. “In that case, sir, will you give the American ambassador my regards?”

“I will do that,” Putin said with smile. He then addressed Gil in English: “Shall we drink to your mission, Master Chief?”

“Absolutely, Mr. President.”

They toasted the mission, and it was all Gil could do not to gag on the pint-size shot of vodka.

49

IN THE SKY OVER THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS

The Russian An-72 transport jet cruised along at three hundred miles per hour, not much more than three thousand feet off the deck.

Gil sat across from Dragunov dressed in Russian combat gear. “This is fucking insane.”

Dragunov smiled, drawing calmly from a cigarette. “Not as crazy as jumping out the back of a 727 over Iran.”

Gil smirked, shaking his head. “I don’t know where you people get your information.” He knew that Dragunov was referring to Operation Tiger Claw, the mission in which he had infiltrated Iranian airspace via a Turkish Airlines flight almost two years earlier.

“From a reliable source,” Dragunov assured him.

“Yeah? Maybe you’ll introduce me to that source sometime.”

“Maybe.” Dragunov’s gaze was confident, much more so than when they’d gotten off the helo back at the Kremlin. “Tell me about your meeting with Putin.”

Gil shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. First he complained
about what a huge pussy you are, and he then asked if I’d go along to look after you.”

The Spetsnaz man laughed.

“I felt bad for the guy,” Gil went on. “I couldn’t tell him no.”

Dragunov sat smiling. “You used an SVD for the Iran assassination, correct?” An SVD was the Dragunov SVD sniper rifle in 7.62 × 54mmR (rimmed), invented by Ivan’s grandfather.

Gil’s eyes narrowed. “I was never in Iran . . . Ivan.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dragunov said. “The rifle you have now is even better than the one you carried in Iran. It’s a match weapon taken from the Kremlin Armory.”

The SVD in Gil’s load-out was essentially brand new, with a black polymer stock, and equipped with the standard-issue PSO-1 scope, suppressed. The SVD held a ten-round box magazine, and Gil carried eleven mags. His main combat weapon would be a 5.45 x 39 mm AN-94 assault rifle with a GP-34 40 mm grenade launcher. His sidearm was a 9 mm Strike One Strizh. The rest of his load-out consisted of an NR-40 Russian combat knife, a dozen 40 mm grenades for the GP-34, six RGN hand grenades, medical bag, Russian third-generation night vision, radio headset, high-energy food bars, a water bladder similar to a CamelBak, and various incidentals.

“What speed are we jumping at?” Gil asked. “A couple thousand?”

“No,” Dragunov chortled. “One hundred miles an hour from five hundred feet. How fast was the 727 flying when you jumped into Iran?”

Gil ignored the question. “We should be HALO-ing in. This is fucking nuts.”

Dragunov crushed out the cigarette against the sole of his boot. “This way we’ll hit the ground exactly where we want to be.”

“With a pair of broken legs. Nobody uses drag chutes anymore, Ivan.”

The Russian double-checked his equipment, which was essentially identical to Gil’s. “The moon is waxing,” he said. “Umarov’s
people watch the sky, and they have early warning patrols all over the mountains.”

“Well, with this noisy pig buzzing the treetops, I’m sure they won’t expect a fucking thing.”

“That’s right,” Dragunov said. “Only a fool would jump out of a jet plane at five hundred feet in the middle of the night.”

Gil pulled on his helmet and gathered the drag chute into his arms. “Fuckin’ nuts,” he muttered.

The red jump light came on a few moments later, and both men got to their feet, standing side by side as they waited for the ramp to drop.

“How much trouble are you in back in Moscow?”

“Enough,” Dragunov said. “But if I bring back Kovalenko’s head, all will be forgiven.”

“What if we bag Umarov, too?”

“If we can kill Dokka Umarov, I’ll be made a Hero of the Russian Federation.” This was Russia’s version of the American Medal of Honor.

“And what about me?”

“You?” Dragunov bashed him on the shoulder and laughed. “You, my friend, you’ll be given a cheap bottle of vodka and a free plane ride home.”

Gil laughed.

The ramp went down, and the light turned green sixty seconds later. They walked down either side of the ramp and tossed their drag chutes into the wind. The drag chutes were caught by the slipstream, and their main chutes deployed instantly, jerking them both from the ramp and out into the night sky. The engines of an An-72 are mounted on the tops of the wings, near the fuselage, rather than beneath the wings like most jet aircraft, so there was little jet wash to contend with. Still, when the chute deployed, the harness jerked into Gil’s groin so hard that he thought his testicles might have ended up in his throat.

There was barely enough time to stabilize their descent and get
their bearings before they were dropping through the treetops three hundred feet apart.

Gil landed with both feet together in the crotch of a hardwood ten feet off the ground. He got loose from the harness and attached the night vision goggles to his helmet, scanning the terrain below for signs of movement. Seeing nothing, he shinned down the tree and unslung the AN-94.

“Typhoon to Carnivore,” he said quietly into the headset. “Do you read? Over.” He waited ten seconds and tried again. “Carnivore, this is Typhoon. Do you read?”

He began to move slowly in the direction of where he had seen Dragunov drop into the forest. A stick snapped, and he froze, lowering himself into a combat crouch near the base of a tree, scanning the gray-black woods through the digital night vision goggles.

“Typhoon to Carnivore,” he said in as low a voice as possible. “Do you copy my traffic? Over.”

Nothing.

He switched the channel. “Typhoon to Archangel. Do you copy?”

“This is Archangel,” answered a voice in Russian-accented English. “What is your status? Over.”

“Archangel, be advised I am on the ground but unable to establish radio contact with Carnivore. Over.”

“Copy, Typhoon. We will attempt to establish contact. Stand by.”

Gil waited a full a minute.

“Typhoon, Carnivore does not answer.”

“Roger that, Archangel. Will attempt to locate on foot.”

He moved out again, covering some two hundred feet before the sounds of voices drove him to cover behind a group of boulders. The voices were low, but the tone of conversation sounded confused.

Letting the AN-94 hang from its three-point sling, Gil drew his pistol and screwed the silencer to the end of the barrel. Then he moved forward through a gap in the rocks, spotting five bearded Chechen soldiers standing in a loose huddle. They gestured at the surrounding forest, shrugging as if they’d been unable to find some
thing. Gil noted they had no night vision, but a small amount of light from the sliver of moon shone down through the bare limbs of the trees.

He was maneuvering through the rocks when he spotted Dragunov dangling from a tree twenty-five feet off the ground directly above the Chechens. He was swaying slightly with his arms dangling at his sides, his chin resting on his chest as though he were unconscious.

Gil hunkered down, balling a green and black
shemagh
over his mouth so that his whispering wouldn’t carry. “Carnivore, this is Typhoon. I have a visual on you from your left at ten o’clock. If you can hear me, open and close your hands.”

He watched as Dragunov opened and closed his hands three times.

“Okay. Give me some time to figure this out. Don’t go anywhere.” He backed away around the boulder, detaching from both rifles and making sure the sheath strapped to his right thigh was unsnapped.